by Jeff Stone
The Five Ancestors
Book 1: Tiger
Book 2: Monkey
Book 3: Snake
Book 4: Crane
Book 5: Eagle
Book 6: Mouse
Book 7: Dragon
The Five Ancestors
OUT OF THE ASHES
Book 1: Phoenix
Book 2: Lion
Book 3: Jackal
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2014 by Jeffrey S. Stone
Jacket art copyright © 2014 by Richard Cowdrey
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stone, Jeff.
Jackal / Jeff Stone. — First edition.
pages cm. — (The five ancestors: out of the ashes; book 3)
Summary: When Jake is offered a chance to race in China for a world-class BMX team, he is not sure that he wants to go—but when one of his friends asks him to smuggle a mysterious drug called dragon bone that can prolong life to her dying mother in China, he feels he has to take the trip, whatever the danger.
ISBN 978-0-375-87020-0 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-375-97020-7 (lib. bdg.)—
ISBN 978-0-375-98761-8 (ebook)
1. Bicycle motocross—Juvenile fiction. 2. Friendship—Juvenile fiction. 3. Drugs—Juvenile fiction. 4. Immortalism—Juvenile fiction. 5. Adventure stories. [1. Bicycle motocross—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Drugs—Fiction. 4. Immortality—Fiction. 5. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S87783Jac 2014 813.6—dc23 2013033920
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For riders who read and readers who ride
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Stage One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Stage Two
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Stage Three
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
I nosed my front tire against the starting gate and stared out at the racecourse two and a half stories below me. It was eerily similar to the men’s 2012 Olympic BMX track, including an epic twenty-five-foot-high roll-in.
A man-track, with man-berms and man-jumps.
My stomach began to roil.
As a fourteen-year-old who hadn’t been on a BMX bike in more than two years, I had absolutely no business riding it.
Which, of course, was exactly why I’d wanted to come. We were scheduled to leave California tonight, and I’d probably never get an opportunity like this again.
“Tear it up, Jake!” Hú Dié shouted from the bleachers.
“Show them who’s boss!” Phoenix yelled from beside her.
“Get ’em, bro!” Ryan called out from beside Phoenix.
“Tighten your chinstrap, for heaven’s sake!” cried Ryan’s mom.
I smiled behind the rigid face mask of my rented racing helmet and adjusted my chinstrap. If I was going down in flames, at least my best friends would be there to see it, and Ryan’s mom could pick up the pieces. She was good at that sort of thing.
A recorded voice boomed, “OKAY, RIDERS, RANDOM START!”
I glanced up the row at the seven other riders in this Sunday-morning fun race. Like me, one of them was using rented elbow and knee pads, plus a rented helmet and rented bike. Five others were wearing their own gear, including generic racing jerseys, and using bikes with mismatched parts. The last one, though—the kid in Gate 8—had a jersey plastered with sponsorship logos and a shiny new ride.
For some reason, the kid in Gate 8 nodded at me. He had smooth ebony skin and dreadlocks that crept out from the bottom of his helmet like fat snakes. I nodded back from my Gate 1 slot, just to be polite. It wasn’t like I knew him. I grew up racing BMX in Southern California, and we were way north today, outside of San Francisco. I’d never ridden up here. Still, if he didn’t have dreads, it could have been my old best friend Raffi. But Raffi was as bald as a beach ball when I left the state a couple years ago. People’s hair didn’t grow that fast.
“RIDERS READY …”
I positioned my pedals parallel to the ground and stood on them, grateful for the grippy waffle tread on the bottom of my skater shoes.
“WATCH THE GATE!”
I took a deep breath and straightened my wrists.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The gate dropped.
And we rolled in.
I thrust my weight forward so hard, my hips slammed into the handlebars. The bike didn’t fit me perfectly, but I managed to maintain control and scorch the roll-in, my feet spinning well over a hundred revolutions per minute by the time I hit the bottom of the drop.
The seven other riders were eating my dust, including the kid from Gate 8. I grinned. The start was the most critical part of the race. I still had BMX mojo.
The first roller came faster than I expected, and I stopped pedaling, deciding what to do. It was eight feet tall, and there was a second roller after it that was positioned just the right distance to serve as a landing ramp if you wanted to jump the gap in between instead of simply rolling over them. I considered tapping the brakes because I’d promised Ryan’s mom that I wouldn’t catch any air, but it was too late. I hit the first roller going at least twenty miles per hour.
I shot skyward like a rocket, awakening muscle memory from years of kiddie-league BMX racing. My knees and elbows worked without me thinking about them, positioning the bike beneath me, and I leveled out.
Perfect.
I glanced down, marveling at how much sunshine was between the bottom of my tires and the ground.
From somewhere far off, Ryan’s mother was screaming, “Jake, you promised! No jumping!”
Oops, I thought.
I nosed the bike down the backside of the second roller and looked ahead. Coming up was another double roller, both at least twelve feet tall. I decided not to push my luck with Ryan’s mom and tapped my brakes. I’d roll over them both instead of jumping the gap.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid from Gate 8 touch down on the backside of the second roller. Once his wheels hit the dirt, he began to pedal like a maniac.
We reached the top of the next roller at the same time. I rolled over the dirt mound, coasting lamely down the backside of it while the other kid sprang into the air like a kangaroo, pulling his bike up with him and soaring at least fifteen feet high.
Hú Dié shouted one of her banshee wails for the kid, and I frowned.
Not cool.
I began to pedal—hard. I was halfway up the second twelve-foot roller when the other kid touched down on the backside of it. He landed so smoothly that I
didn’t hear a sound.
He was good.
But I knew I was better.
I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw that this kid and I were smoking everyone else. I decided to ignore my promise to Ryan’s mom. I kept pedaling with every ounce of strength I had while the other kid stopped pedaling in preparation for the next set of rollers—three evenly spaced twelve-footers. I watched him compress his body like a spring, and as he hit the top of the first roller, he unleashed all of that stored energy, taking flight.
I did the same thing a millisecond later, except I had been pedaling like a beast and was traveling faster than he was when I reached the top of the roller.
He went high, but I went higher.
I was close to twenty feet off the ground, nearly the height of the massive roll-in ramp. I leveled out, passing the other kid in midair.
We both cleared the entire triple-roller gap with one jump and nosed onto the backside of the third roller with me half a bike length ahead. I’d never jumped that high or that far before. I felt like a superhero.
We transitioned directly into a tight left turn with a steeply banked berm. I leaned hard to my left and stopped pedaling so that my left pedal wouldn’t dig into the dirt. I stayed low on the berm, choosing a line that was more or less a straight shot from my Gate 1 start. The other kid was way high on the berm, in line with his Gate 8 start position. However, halfway around the bend, he spun his wheel sharply in my direction and accelerated at a downward angle with incredible speed. He cut me off, stealing my line.
I tapped my brakes to avoid smashing into him and shook my head. That was a classic high/low move. I should have seen it coming. Now he was in the lead.
Next up was a series of ten equally spaced low rollers, or whoops. Most kids jumped them in pairs, but if you knew what you were doing, you could actually go faster by keeping your tires on the ground the whole time and pumping your way through them.
I knew what I was doing.
The other kid, not so much.
Or maybe he was just showing off.
The other kid took to the air, while I remained glued to the ground. I pressed down with my arms and chest, like I was doing a push-up, while also pressing down with my legs. When I began to feel myself rolling up the first whoop, I released the pressure on my legs and pulled up with my arms. Once I rolled over the top of the whoop and onto the backside, I began to press down again with all my might.
I repeated the sequence up and over the remaining rollers, and I didn’t pedal the entire time. Instead, I pumped my way through the whoops with my body, picking up more speed than I thought possible. My arms and legs were beginning to ache by the end of the section, but it was worth it. The other kid may have looked cooler, pogoing through the whoops and jumping them in pairs, but I zipped over the last one a full bike length ahead of him. Now I was in the lead.
Next up was another turn, this one to the right. The bend wasn’t as sharp as the last one, and the berm wasn’t anywhere near as steep. However, this turn had something I’d never seen before in a BMX track—a jump at the very center of it.
I whizzed around the first half of the bend and hit the lip of the turn-jump going faster than I should have. I not only cleared the gap, I nearly jumped out of the entire track. Fortunately, there was a safety wall made of solid plywood at the top of the berm, and I hit it square on with both tires. I rode the wall for a few feet like a street BMXer cruising along the side of a building. Then I bunny-hopped off and righted my bike, putting the wheels back on the dirt.
I blinked several times to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. That was probably the sickest move I’d ever pulled off.
The other kid had timed the jump much better, and he caught up with me. We rode neck and neck, flying over more sets of eight- and twelve-foot rollers before zipping into the final turn—another tight one to the left.
I took the turn high this time, while the other kid stayed low. The low road was the shortest route, which usually made it the best choice. However, as the other kid’s earlier move had reminded me, a high rider could gather more speed on a turn like this by taking advantage of the berm’s steep downward angle. I decided to give it a go.
I swept down the berm like a hawk, but the other kid saw me coming. He began to pedal furiously while leaning hard to his left.
Pedaling on a berm was dangerous. The kid handled it like a pro, though, his left foot and pedal barely skimming the dirt’s surface. He inched forward, preventing me from getting in front of him.
I settled for riding at his side as we completed the turn and headed for the final straightaway, which consisted of another section of ten whoops, followed by a pair of twelve-foot rollers. After that was the finish line.
I pumped the whoops like I’d done on the previous set, but so did the other kid. His upper body was clearly stronger than mine because he began to creep ahead. By the time we finished the whoops and reached the top of the first twelve-foot roller, he was out in front by half a bike length.
I was going to lose.
We went airborne, and I ground my teeth. I didn’t mind losing a race on a mountain bike or road bike, but for some reason I couldn’t stomach losing on a BMX bike. This was my territory. Somewhere very far off, Hú Dié let loose another one of her banshee wails, and I knew that it was meant to motivate me. I had to do something.
I squeezed my bike frame between my knees and tail-whipped my rear tire in the direction of the other rider. Skilled racers do this all the time as a neat trick. However, unskilled racers do it, too, most often because they’ve lost control of their bike.
The other kid saw my rear tire headed his way, and he flinched. His smooth glide became an erratic wobble. I pulled my rear tire back underneath me, beginning to regret what I’d just done.
I landed as soft as a feather, while the other rider slammed into the backside of the final roller like a rookie. Thankfully, he didn’t go down, but he’d lost most of his speed.
As I coasted to victory, I looked over my shoulder, because I wanted to make sure that the other kid was okay. Unfortunately, he appeared to take it as me being cocky and waved an angry fist at me.
I stopped well beyond the finish line to give the other kid and the remaining riders plenty of room to complete the race, but the kid with the dreadlocks kept coming toward me—fast. Hard. And I had nowhere to go. My back was against a plywood wall.
I couldn’t help thinking of Ryan’s crash into a fellow racer, and the final outcome. I braced myself, preparing for the worst.
I heard brakes squeal and tires swoosh as the rider on the shiny new bike cut his front wheel an instant before plowing into me. His rear tire skidded around, scraping off the top layer of the track and sending up a wave of dirt that clogged my nostrils and clouded my vision. I choked out loud.
The kid laughed. “Better watch yourself, Jake. Paybacks are rough.”
I tore off my helmet and shook my head, using my shaggy blond hair to mop some of the dirt from my face. The other rider removed his helmet, too.
I rubbed my eyes. “Raffi? It is you!”
“The one and only,” he said.
“How’d your hair get so long?”
“Extensions, yo. Now introduce me to your crew before things get ugly.”
I looked over Raffi’s shoulder and saw my friends running toward us at full speed, forcing the remaining six riders off the track as soon as they crossed the finish line. Phoenix’s eyes glowed with green fire, and Hú Dié and Ryan appeared ready to smash something.
I held up both hands and yelled, “Easy, guys! This is Raffi. He’s just messing with me. He was my best friend before I moved to Indiana.”
“I’m messing with you?” Raffi said, adjusting his sweet dreadlocks. “What about that tail whip?”
“Sorry, bro,” I replied, “but you started it by high/lowing me on the first turn.”
Raffi chuckled. “Oh, yeah. My bad.”
Phoenix, Ryan, and Hú Dié stopped next
to me. They were all panting from their effort, and they didn’t look happy. It was, like, ninety degrees out, and they were sweating buckets.
“Everything’s cool?” Phoenix asked.
“Cool as a cucumber,” I said.
“You gonna introduce us?” Raffi asked.
“You know it,” I said, pointing. “That’s Phoenix, that’s Ryan, and that’s Hú Dié.”
Raffi smiled, his teeth gleaming. “Nice to meet you all, though I already know who you are.”
Phoenix raised a sweaty eyebrow. “Really?”
“Sure. You guys are all over the Internet, man. I normally don’t pay attention to road bike racing, but I saw Jake’s pic on the local newspaper’s home page, and I had to investigate.” He turned to me. “You got mad BMX skills, yo. Why you fooling with road bikes?”
“Because he is good at it,” Hú Dié answered. “The road bike race he won the other night was against adults.”
“I read that,” Raffi said, “and I also read that you came in second. Pretty impressive.”
I saw a hint of a smile appear on Hú Dié’s face. “Thank you,” she said.
She was wearing shorts in the July heat, and I pointed to her burly quads. “Hú Dié drops hammers.”
“No doubt,” Raffi said. “You ride any other kinds of bikes besides road bikes, Hú Dié? Maybe BMX?”
“I ride here and there,” she replied.
“Don’t be so modest,” Ryan said. “She’s a monster on any kind of bike. She even builds them by hand in a bike shop she owns in China.”
“That is so cool,” Raffi said.
“I am really not that great on a BMX bike, though,” Hú Dié said, “especially when it comes to tricks.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “But Jake … I had no idea you could ride like that! I am the one who is impressed!”
I felt my cheeks begin to turn red. “It’s nothing, really. Raffi and I used to do a little riding.”
“A little riding?” Raffi said. “That’s the understatement of the century, yo! We used to ride at least five days a week, two or three hours a day. Sometimes more.”
“During summer vacation?” Phoenix asked.